+dctectiive
Abel hated walls. He felt cramped, closed in, claustrophobic - so tied down despite his ability to wander where he chose. Few things could force the walker to restrict himself to as crowded a locale as the Russian prison, but his admiration and need for the detective being held within were certainly among them. Feeling his way along the darkened hall, Abel peered around the corner at the guard making his rounds and spied another dark figure standing at the far end watching his coworker pace the floor. He chewed his lip in thought. Outdoors it had been easy enough - plenty of space to slip around places, to hide and sneak and avoid unwanted attention. Here though - here was close and personal, and Abel so loathed such conflict.
He reached out through Shadow, tugging strands of the Logrus until he felt what he needed on the other side. It was a long cylinder, wooden and carved, a beautiful blowgun he’d had used on him before on an ill-fated trip to a realm populated by tribes that liked to dine on humanoid flesh. He remembered it and its ammunition well, and in moments two darts sat in his palm, the blowgun clenched in the other.
As the pacing guard passed his hallway, he puffed out on the gun, shooting a dart at his neck, quickly readying the other as the quick pattering of footsteps alerted him to the approach of the other. He missed the second shot, and though he was half distracted by the body of his co-patroller slumping to the floor, the second guard was able to get out a call of alarm and a shot with his gun before Abel was able to clip him on the side of the head with the butt of his rapier. It was a hurried and slightly wounded Abel that jiggled the keys into the door of Sherlock’s cell, slipping inside and slamming it behind him unceremoniously.
“Ahem. Well, ah - Sir Detective? I think we ought to get going.”